“Bro, it’s not coming from the fry oil.” Terrence rattled the fry basket, to show the clean canola fry oil. “I changed the fuckin’ fry oil.”

Earl pushed the last flat of eggs back into the freshly cleaned reach-in cooler beside the prep line. “Well, like, it still smells, alright?” He raised his nose and scowled.

“Bro, we cleaned everything.”

Hitch finished wiping out the bottom of the line fridge, replacing the trays of burgers and sliced meats. “Confucius say: if everywhere you go smells like shit, you need to wash your face.” He grunted as he stood and cracked his back. “Cleanin’ coolers is fuckin’ new guy shit.”

Terrence shook his head. “You are the fuckin’ new guy.”

“Too fuckin’ old to be new.”

Terrence hooked a thumb over his shoulder to the fourth “Make your boyfriend do it.”

Hitch glanced back at Octavio, watching them all work. “We’re not exclusive yet,” Hitch muttered.

The timid dishwasher wore a brand new, immaculately clean set of yellow rubber gloves for the kitchen cleaning activity, although he had yet to start cleaning anything.

Stolen novel; please report.

Hitch dumped his bucket of dirty sanitizer water into the dish pit. “Besides, he’s too delicate for Brillo pads.”

The dishwasher swatted Hitch’s shoulder playfully. “Que dicen, Paco?”

“Estan buscando el olor de pescado.”

Octavio giggled. “Debería lavarse el bigote.”

Earl kept opening fridges, poking his head into them, sniffing around for a moment before slamming the fridge door. “Like, it still smells fishy, alright?”

Octavio inspected the fingertips of his rubber gloves which were just a size too large for him. “Creo que su novia podría estar enferma.”

“Sinverguenza,” Hitch said, shaking his head disapprovingly at Octavio. “Earl, I don’t mean to go gettin’ all up in your business, but—”

“If Uncle George gets back to this smell—”

“Bro, we cleaned everything, alright?” Terrence peered over the back of the flat top grill like a filet might have gone over the backsplash. “It’s not coming from the kitchen.”

Hitch folded his arms across his chest. “Look, man. I don’t want to have to translate this.”

“What’s he say?”

“Well,” Hitch glanced over at Octavio who grinned impishly and motioned for Hitch to continue. “Octavio agrees with Confucius.”

“It’s not my freakin’ face, alright?” Earl scrubbed his scraggly beard. “Like, you smell it though, right?”

“Yeah, bro.” Terrence tossed his damp towel in the dirty rag hamper. “It fuckin’ stinks, alright.”

Hitch nodded and peered out the pass-through window at a few more not-so-undercover cops sitting at the counter, smirking. “What if it’s not coming from the kitchen?”

Earl glanced out at the three super-patriots stuffing their faces. “Those guys?”

Hitch shrugged. “It started after we opened, and it’s been getting worse ever since.”